


righteous in wrath

by theMightyPen



Series: slowly, then all at once [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Don't read at work kids!!!, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: For years, her friends from childhood had always fantasized about what sort of man they would like to marry. A kind one, for sweet, dimpled Ailwen. A bold one, for brash, smiling Mellien. A powerful one, for cunning, sly Corweth.Lothiriel, however, always has wanted a good man as her husband. Is it any wonder that finding that she has wed one makes her want him all the more?(Or, Eomer's show of temper during an audience has...unexpected results.)





	righteous in wrath

**Author's Note:**

> No r(a)grets!
> 
> (Also I entirely blame Niamh for encouraging me to write this. Thanks, bb.)

 

 

* * *

 

Eomer is grateful to whoever thought to put Lothirel’s chair within arm’s reach of his own, for it makes the audiences much far bearable. Oh, he would attend them regardless, out of love of his people and duty to his role as king, but to have the calm, gentle presence of his wife at his side makes it more pleasure than duty.

They had married for convenience and sense rather than love, but he has come to value her friendship all the same. It does not hurt that she is beautiful as well, but is far less important when compared to her sharp mind and diplomatic skills, the easy way she has integrated herself into the very fabric of Meduseld.

Which she is doing now, looking equal parts regal and welcoming as two  _ Eorlingas _ argue over who a foal, born to Britta’s mare, but sired by Edgar’s prized stallion, truly belongs to. The foal had only come to be thanks to a faulty padlock on Edgar’s stables and poor Gifu roaming Britta’s fields at the wrong time instead of a prior breeding arrangement. Britta claims that the foal is his by virtue of the loss of use of Gifu as a mount during the last months of her pregnancy, where Edgar claims the opposite due to his stallion’s supposed  _ meras _ blood. The argument has been going in circles for the better part of 2 hours, and even Herubrand, as Chief Stablemaster for all of Edoras, looks near boredom. 

  
“You cannot be truly interested in this,” he murmurs in a low tone. 

The corners of Lothiriel’s mouth twitch, but she somehow appears as politely intrigued in the proceedings as before. “I am a woman of varied interests, my lord.”  

Eomer snorts, earning a disapproving look from Erkenbrand. Smothering a sigh, he focuses on looking kingly and attentive.

“What say you, Eomer King?” Gamling asks. “To whom does the foal belong?”

_ Thank Bema _ , he thinks, glad to finally be able to put an end to the matter. “If the stallion truly has the blood of the  _ meras _ , so will the foal. She will know her own mind well enough to decide her true rider when she is fully-grown. For now, let her remain with Britta and his mare. There is no sense in separating them unnecessarily.”

The hall murmurs their agreement and Britta, looking gleeful, shakes a frowning-but-resigned Edgar’s hand.

“Thank the Valar,” Lothiriel says, “I was half-afraid they would suggest cutting the poor thing in half, just to satisfy their egos!”

“You need not have worried. Any  _ eorlingas  _ would rather harm themselves than one of their horses,” Eomer assures her, laying a hand on hers.

Her smile turns mischievous, in a way he has only seen it around her brothers before. “Somehow that does not surprise me.”

Her grin widens when he pinches the back of her hand. They still have so much to learn about each other, but for now, Eomer is content that she is comfortable enough to tease him, to show him a new facet of her personality one bit at a time.

“Are there any more petitioners, Erkenbrand?”

His councilor’s face is grave, a stark contrast to the jovial mood of the audience room. “Just one, sire. I must warn you: it is not pleasant.”

His mood immediately darkens. Erkenbrand is not given to exaggeration; if he says the last case is dire, it truly must be so.

Eomer starts at the sensation of Lothiriel’s slim, soft fingers fitting into his. She offers him a different smile, now, soft and private.  _ I am here for you _ , it says, and he is glad of it.

He nods towards the door wardens wordlessly. The entire room falls silent as the doors open, revealing a slim woman, with one child on her hip, another clinging to her hand. All are visibly trembling as they approach the dais, and Eomer frowns at their obvious discomfort at being watched by so many. What crime could they have possibly committed?

It becomes abruptly clear when a haggard, ragged man is dragged forward by a stone-faced Eothain, that they are not the perpetrators, but rather the victims of some crime. Eomer can feel his famed temper stirring at the way the woman flinches back from the man, even with the wall of his captain’s body and that of other guards between them.

“Eomer King, Lothiriel Queen, this is Sorrun and her children,” Eothain explains, laying a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “They have come to petition you for justice.”

Eomer grits his teeth. Bema help him, he has never been able to stomach the thought of a woman being harmed, much less one with small children, and--

“And we will hear them,” comes Lothiriel’s voice, pulling him from the brink of true anger. Her fingers press his, clearly more aware of his slip of temper than he’d like. “What has brought you here, Sorrun?”

The woman swallows, once, twice, before answering. “Hefric has long been our neighbor. My--” At this she pauses again, clearly holding back tears, “husband considered him a friend.”

“We were friends!” The man--Hefric--howls. “And yet this is how you would repay me, Sorrun!”

“ _ Forswigest _ ,” hisses Eothain. “You will speak when told to do so,  _ wyrm _ .”

One of the children whimpers. The sound of her children’s distress seems to give Sorrun courage, for she holds them closer and turns clear eyes on Eomer and Lothiriel. “My Fastred could not have known how wrong he was. We had only gotten word of his death on Pelennor two weeks previously when Hefric returned from the West Mark, and began to say he was owed money for help tilling the fields and the weapons Fastred had not taken with him to battle.”

“They were  _ mine _ , Fastred  _ swore _ it--”

Hefric earns a swift punch to his stomach from one of the guards and a look of pure loathing from Sorrun for his outburst.

“He would never have promised those to him, Your Majesties,” she says, “for they were made by his grandfather, and belonged to his father before him. They are Fastwine’s,” she touches her son’s shoulder to indicate him, “by right. I  _ loved _ my husband. I  _ knew  _ my husband. He would not have wanted them to go to anyone but our son.”

“As is tradition,” Eomer agrees. “But what is the wrong done to you, Sorrun?”

She swallows again. “Hefric broke into our home two nights again. He--he had taken the pouch where I keep our coin and the first of the two swords before I discovered him. He meant to leave us destitute, and my son without his father’s legacy.”

Angry murmurs fill the room. Eomer cannot blame them; his own temper is hanging by a thread, kept only in check by the now ice-cold grip Lothiriel has on his hand. To rob the wife of a friend! A war widow and mother! To take away the only piece of a father the boy will likely not remember much of!

“What say you to these charges, Hefric, son of Hereward?” Erkenbrand asks, disdain dripping from every syllable.

“All lies! Falsehoods from the mouth of a foolish woman, wracked with grief! Fastred made a gift of them to me before he left for battle--”

Eomer can hear the blood rushing behind his ears, nearly drowning out the man’s contemptible mewling. That this  _ wǣrloga _ would dare steal from a war-widow, wife to his fallen friend and a mother now raising her children alone, is bad enough, but that he would then try to  _ defend _ his actions! It is beyond appalling.

“What proof do you have of this?” Asks Lothiriel. “Perhaps a contract?”

Hefric’s expression turns smug. “ _ Eorlingas _ do not need paper to make an oath, Lothiriel Queen. Perhaps you do not know your new people well enough to be aware of that.”

Eomer nearly snarls; the audacity of the bastard knows no bounds! To insult the Queen of the Mark to her face! In front of their people, in front of  _ him _ !

Lothiriel raises her chin, looking cool and unaffected despite the tick in her jaw. “An oath, you say. Then there would be witnesses we could speak to, to confirm your version of events.”

Eomer feels a touch of satisfaction as the man’s smug expression morphs rapidly into nervousness.

“We...we were childhood friends, there would be no need--”

“All oaths in the Mark require witnesses in order to be considered binding,” she interrupts, looking at him very steadily. “Even those between... _ friends _ . If you do not have them--”

“There were witnesses! There were! They--they also fell with Fastred on Pelennor, defending  _ your _ people--”

“So,” Eomer cuts across him, leaning forward menacingly as he does so, despite the cautioning look Lothiriel shoots him, “we are to take the word of a man who would rob his dead friend’s wife and children in the middle of the night that there was a sacred oath?”

“I am maligned! Sorrun has always disliked me. And now she takes advantage of the pity she is given as a widow--”

“Pity?” Eomer spits. “She is to be commended. For raising her children and keeping them and her husband’s legacy from a viper like you.”

“I am no viper! The swords, the money--they should be mine! Fastred swore--”

“Fastred did no such thing,” comes a new voice. Another man steps forward. Tall, broad, but missing his left arm from the elbow down, he eyes Hefric with disgust. Hefric goes a ghastly white and attempts to step back, only to bump into the scowling guards still holding him captive.

“And who are you?” Erkenbrand asks.

The man offers Eomer and then Lothiriel a bow. “I am Grimwine, Your Majesties. I rode with Fastred, son of Fastan, to Pelennor. I was with him when he died.”

Sorrun gives a sharp gasp and Grimwine’s fierce expression softens. He takes her free hand with care, continuing on with a much more gentle, “A better brother in arms I could not have asked for. He spoke of you and the children often. Your fields. The apple tree where you spent your first months courting.I hope it comforts you that he was steadfast and true, right up until the very end.” At this, his expression shifts back towards disgust as he turns to face Hefric. “And when he spoke of you, Hefric, son of Hereward, it was only to mention his worry that he did not know, nor like, the man you had become. A cowardly man, a craven one. He would never have left  _ irfeláfa _ to  _ you _ .”

Hefric’s face contorts into a truly terrible expression. “Hah! What would Fastred  _ Geséfte _ know of bravery! He was not fit to wield those swords, he was not fit to ride in an  _ eored _ ! It is no surprise that he did not survive!”

“Enough!”

The rage that fills Eomer is not unlike the bloodlust of a battlefield. He shoots to his feet, dislodging Lothiriel’s grasp on his hand. Dimly, he’s aware of a soft gasp behind him, and the alarmed mutters of the crowd, but his attention is narrowed to the now cowering man. His hands shake and he wishes for Guthwine, to rid the hall and the  _ world _ of such filth.

“That you would lie,” he says, a hush falling over the hall as his voice echoes with both strength and fury, “makes you dishonorable. That you would steal from a widow and her children makes you shameless. That you would speak ill of a dead man makes you loathsome. Qualities that no  _ eorlingas _ should possess. Give me one reason more to strike you down where you stand and I will. And I do not make idle threats.”

“This is not justice!” The man protests, voice thin with fear. “That is an execution!”

“Are there any here who would speak for him? Who call for mercy?”

The silence is near deafening.

Eomer strides forward, ignoring the look Eothain is giving him to grasp the man by the front of his shirt. “And you? Have you anything more to say for yourself? Can you speak in anything other than falsehoods and insults?”

“I--”

“You have shown your quality, Hefric, son of Hereward, and I and those around you deem it wanting. Friendless, I name you.  _ Wearg _ . I am well within my rights, as your lord and protector of all  _ eorlingas _ , to take your head. It would spare us all from your continued treachery.”

“Eomer,” murmurs Eothain, low enough as not to be overheard, “you cannot draw a weapon inside the audience room.”

Eomer scowls down into the coward’s face. Eothain is right; he cannot break the sacred vow that keeps the audience room a space safe for all to vent their concerns, their trials. But his hands still shake with the urge to do  _ something _ , to make this wastral pay for his disloyalty, his  _ betrayal _ \--

“Sire,” comes a softer voice, “I ask that you do not kill him.”

He turns, rage fading slightly from a white-hot heat to a more manageable simmer of red. Sorrun, though still pale, stands resolute.

“My lady,” he says, “what justice would you have, then?”

Her eyes are as hard as flint as she looks on the other man. “Send him away. Let him live, with the knowledge of what he has said, what he has tried to do. And let all know what a friendship with Henric, son of Hereward, will bring them.”

_ A thief’s brand _ , Eomer realizes. He will be recognized, on sight, by any who know the customs of the Mark as the treacherous worm that he is, by the mark branded on his forehead. Any decent people will keep away from him, and even other criminals will know better than to let him into their circle.

“No--no, that is not a life! I should not have tried to steal the sword! Have mercy, Sorrun! Eomer  _ Eadig _ , please--”

“That I do not kill you here and now is mercy enough,” Eomer declares. “I deem Sorrun’s request sound.”

Even in his desperation, Hefric has one last bit of trickery, choking out, “And--and what of your Queen? What does she think of such harsh punishments?”

Dread rushes through him, as icy cold as his earlier rage had been hot. Lothiriel has never seen him in a temper before. She has had no reason to. The fear that he has ruined any chance of their happiness, their slow, tentative attempts at building a true marriage, with his anger that even his friends have described as nothing short of frightening is suddenly overwhelming.

“As always,” comes his wife’s voice, with only the smallest of tremors, “I stand with Eomer King.”

“So be it. Let it be known that Hefric, son of Hereward, will be branded with a thief’s mark. He is to be banished from the kingdom of Rohan. What say you,  _ eorlingas _ ?”

The resounding  _ aye _ echo heartens him, slightly. At least in the eyes of his people, he has made the right choice. But in the eyes of his wife...

He dares not look at her, even when Eothain and the guards haul the now wailing man away for his punishment. Sorrun murmurs her thanks with a gentle touch to his elbow and he offers her a passably polite nod. Suddenly it is too much; there are too many eyes on him, too many curious murmurs.

“No more petitions,” he says to Erkenbrand. “I am finished for today.”

“Eomer…”

She’s crossed the room in the interim and now hovers beside him. He turns his head to meet Lothiriel’s eyes. It is a poor decision, because they are wide, her cheeks tinged pink, and her hands fluttering nervously at her sides.

_ Ah _ , he thinks. Yes. He has done it. She is afraid of him. She must think him nothing short of beastly, a wild animal she had mistaken as tamed, now revealed itself vicious in truth.

“My lady,” he says, “I am not fit company for you, at the moment.”

He gives her a short bow before turning on his heel, intent on heading for the stables. There, at least, he can distract himself from the wreckage his temper has likely wrought on his relationship with his wife and Queen.

 

* * *

 

Lothiriel huffs. She had retired to their rooms early, in the hopes of finding her errant husband. But they are empty and have remained so for the hours she’s spent waiting for him. Empty, empty,  _ empty _ , and she is...frustrated.

Though she cannot fault Eomer for needing time to decompress after hearing Sorrun’s case. Hefric’s actions had been reprehensible. Even the most stone-hearted would have been moved by the sight of Sorrun and her family, so strong against the betrayal of their supposed friend.

And her husband is many things, but stone-hearted is certainly not one of them.

Lothiriel has heard tales of his infamous anger before, both from her own family and from the gossip-mongers in Gondor before she’d wed him. Awe-inspiring, her brothers had said. A powerful force, if a wild one, declared Ada.

A direct contrast to the ladies, who deemed it--and Eomer-- _ dangerous _ and  _ frightening _ .

_ Anger is not a quality any good woman wants in a husband. What if he turns it on her? Can you imagine the fear his wife will have to live in? _

Perhaps Lothiriel is not good, then. For while she certainly had not wanted to be in Hefric’s shoes, as the target of Eomer’s towering, fierce rage, witnessing it had not made her afraid.

No, it was not fear she felt when he’d all but  _ stalked _ down the steps, righteous wrath and indignation radiating from every line of his great frame, calling out the puny, wretched man for his mistreatment of those most deserving of his support and kindness.

It was not fear that made her cheeks flush, her breath come short watching him become judge and jury, protector and executor, all at once.

It was...it  _ is _ desire, or what she has come to know of it. Oh, she’d known, in theory, what it was to want and be wanted before she’d married. Lothiriel has always liked to read and been too curious for her own good not to have delved into the darker, more secret corners of Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith’s libraries. She has never liked to be uneducated on subjects that interest her, and as the daughter of a Prince of Gondor, marriage--and the marriage bed--was something she always known would be her lot, at some point in her life. So she had read what she could find on the subject and considered herself as well-prepared as a highborn maiden could be for the role of  _ wife _ .

But it had not been until her wedding night that she’d truly understood the word. Desire.  _ Hunger _ . Trembling hands, breathy sighs, the way a pair of people can fit together--in more ways than one.

Pleasant as it has been, since that night, she and Eomer’s have typically gone to bed with a  _ purpose _ . For a child. An heir to the Mark’s throne. She has thought, more than once, about mentioning that it need not be so...perfunctory, but has always hesitated. Eomer is a very straight-forward sort of man; surely, if he...desired more of her, he would say so?

That hesitation is gone, swept away by the sharp, sweet pull of lust. Valar, is it so strange that she should  _ like _ that her husband is such a force of nature? That he uses his near legendary strength for protection instead of only battle? For years, her friends from childhood had always fantasized about what sort of man they would like to marry. A kind one, for sweet, dimpled Ailwen. A bold one, for brash, smiling Mellien. A powerful one, for cunning, sly Corweth.

Lothiriel, however, always has wanted a  _ good _ man as her husband. Is it any wonder that finding that she has wed one makes her want him all the more?

The burning wood of the fire gives a muted  _ pop _ , pulling her from her musings. It has been hours now and she has seen neither hide nor hair of Eomer. And her hands still shake, her skin tingles with repressed longing, and she does not want to wait until he tries to creep in, cat-like and silent despite his height, to merely  _ sleep _ beside her.

She crosses the room, pulling a slim wooden box from one of her drawers. A wedding gift from Estella Brandybuck lies within. Lothiriel has blushed, from the roots of her hair to the top of her chest, every time she has so much as  _ glanced  _ in its direction before, but now…

_ You’ll know when to use it _ , the Hobbit had said with a wry, knowing smile,  _ and besides, even a Queen of the Big Folk cannot ask for finer lace than we make in Buckland _ .

The robe is gossamer light and so finely stitched that it is nearly see-through in places. It is... _ well _ . And combined with the sheer, equally bold nightgown her sister-in-law had slipped her before she’d left Dol Amroth, there can be no denying what someone clad in such a pair of things wants, when approaching their husband in the dead of night.

Good. Lothiriel has never liked being unclear.

 

* * *

 

She is grateful both for the lateness of the hour and the short distance to Eomer’s office, for the halls are deserted and likely to remain so. Bold as she feels at the moment, it would cause no small amount of talk should any of the serving girls or door wards see their Queen creeping around Meduseld so scantily-clad.

But the walk is short and made shorter still be her quick steps; despite it being summer, the flagstones are icy beneath her feet. Lothiriel has one, singular moment of nervousness, her hand raised to knock on the door.

But then she thinks of the echo of Eomer’s voice in the audience chamber, the desire to protect and avenge and right wrongs plain in every word, the strong line of his back, the breadth of his shoulders as he’d placed himself between Hefric and Sorrun--

Well, she wouldn’t say it’s the  _ easiest  _ decision she’s ever made, to knock, but it is certainly simple enough once it’s done.

“Enter,” comes Eomer’s deep voice and Valar, even that is enough to send a fissure of heat through her.

He is staring into the fire when she does so, looking the opposite of how she feels, gloomy and grim. Ah. So he  _ has  _ been brooding. Lothiriel did wonder. Strangely enough, it does not dampen her ardor. It is  _ right _ that he feels the weight of the judgement he has passed today, and only further confirms that she has been blessed to wed a truly good man.

Lothiriel forces herself not to give an audible sigh when she lays a hand on his shoulder. Even through his shirt, she can feel the heat of his skin, and the day-long ache below her stomach flares, sweetly, sharply. Valar help her--how does anyone get anything  _ done _ when they feel this way?

“Whatever has the fire done to upset you so,  _ bonda min _ ?”

Eomer’s head turns towards her so suddenly she almost startles. Lothiriel suppresses a smile; she’s been practicing her Rohirric with her ladies and it’s clear her using it is a surprise. But not, she guesses from the way his eyes widen as he takes her in, as much as her outfit.

Eomer audibly swallows, dark eyes raking over her from head to foot. It is almost as potent as a caress, and Lothiriel shivers.

“Lothiriel,” he finally says, voice hoarse, “why are you dressed like that?”

She very nearly flinches. Oh, Valar! Could it be that he--his desires do not match hers? That he truly only  _ does _ want to visit her bed for an heir?

The longer she looks at him, though, the less likely that seems. There is heat enough to match her own in his eyes; she knows the look well enough, after six months of marriage. Heat and...uncertainty? How strange! 

  
But Lothiriel is neither uncertain nor afraid, especially of Eomer, so she finds the courage to slide her hand over to his neck, fingers pressing lightly at the beat of his pulse. “I would think,” she says, “that would be obvious.” 

She feels, rather than hears, his swallow this time. Her own mouth feels curiously dry, as well.

“But  _ why _ ?”

Lothiriel blinks, desire sidetracked by the open confusion on his face. For it is that, far surpassing uncertainty now, as he stares up at her in the soft light of the fire. Despite this, his hand, large and worn and  _ shockingly  _ hot, brushes against the shift’s hem and Lothiriel has to fight back a whimper.

“What is so confusing to you?” She manages to ask, carding a hand through his hair.

“That you own something like this to begin with,” he admits, which startles a laugh out of her.

“Mistress Brandybuck is a talented lace-worker, it would seem,” she says, swallowing thickly as his hand slides to her hip, scorching through the barely-there fabric, “and my sister-in-law deemed this nightgown a necessity for married life.”

“They are beautiful.  _ You  _ are beautiful. So much so that I...I do not feel as if I deserve it.”

Now, it is her turn to be confused. “What do you mean by that?”

Eomer gives a dark sort of chuckle and pulls his hands back from her, instead moving to grip the arms of the chair. “I would never bar you from the audience room, but that you had to be there today, of all days, and see my damned temper for yourself. That is why I ask  _ why _ , Lothiriel. I do not understand how you can even bear the thought of me being near you let alone...”

Oh, Valar preserve her. That she has a good husband, she knows, and a handsome one is beyond question, but Lothiriel never thought she had a  _ foolish _ one, as well.

“Punishing a scoundrel who would have ruined the lives of an entire family for his own selfish wants is hardly out of line of what I know of you already, Eomer.”

His brow furrows. “But the  _ way _ I did it--what I said, what I wanted to do--Bema, Lothiriel, if I had had Guthwine with me I cannot promise I would not have actually run him through on the spot!”

“But you did not. And I have faith in your strength of will and your,”  _ heart _ , she wants to say, but that is too large a thing to admit, here and now, even as she reaches to cover it with a still-trembling hand, “goodness, that even if you  _ had _ been armed, you would not have.”

Still, the confusion lingers on his face. “But--today, after, you trembled. Even now, you do so. Are you not afraid of me?”

_ Oh, Eomer, _ she thinks, the reason for his reluctance, his hesitance, now abundantly clear.

“Is that what troubles you?” She shifts closer to the chair, forcing herself not to gasp when her leg brushes against Eomer’s knuckles as she does so. “Shall I tell you what I felt in the audience hall today?”

Eomer swallows, again, and the hand closest to her leg and the scandalous shift twitches. “I do not know if I have the strength to hear it.”

“But you must,” she says, finding some inner well of boldness that has her plucking at the strings that hold the neck of his shirt closed, “for I will tell you that it was not fear that made me tremble.”

“What then?”

“Pride,” murmurs Lothiriel, skimming a finger along the long line of his collarbone, “that I should have such a husband, who cares so deeply for the well-being of his people. Surprise, certainly, for I have never heard you so loud before. Admiration, because you took Sorrun’s request into account. And…”

Eomer’s eyes are dark and hot in his face, though he still has made no move to touch her. She suspects he won’t without an outright invitation, if he had thought her afraid of him.

“And?” He asks and the growl in his tone has her moving her hand to splay more fully on his chest. 

“Desire,” Lothiriel admits, “so strong I had fawn-legs all day. And then I could not  _ find  _ you, to tell you so, to show you--”

Eomer groans, finally moving to slide a hand into her hair and pull her down for a fierce kiss. Lothiriel could weep at the sensation, for it brings relief and new heat all at once. She all but clamors into his lap, clutching him as close as she has wanted him all day. But they are at cross purposes, for Eomer is pushing her backwards just enough so he can get his mouth on her neck. It is all she can do to cling to his back when she feels the slick, wet slide of his tongue at the beat of her pulse, followed by the sharp, slight sting of teeth.

Even her flimsy robe and nightgown seem like too many layers, but she cannot collect her maddash thoughts long enough to truly set about taking them off. Not when one of Eomer’s hands has a near-bruising grip on her thigh, the other sliding up her stomach until he is cupping her breast.

The slide of his thumb, slightly muted by the fabric of the nightgown, makes her gasp, and the way his hand tightens on her thigh at the sound makes her moan. She is helpless to stop from rocking her hips down against his, giving another gasp at the intense bolt of heat that shoots through her at the feel of him hard below her.

Somehow--though she could not remember specifics if her life depended on it--they manage to wrestle him out of his shirt. Which leaves the entire wide expanse of his chest and shoulders to kiss and explore, which she does with great enthusiasm. Eomer groans when she kisses her way along the same line she’d drawn on his collarbone earlier and ends the trail with a nip to his shoulder.

She loses her lovely lace robe not long after that, uncaring at the slight tearing sound it makes as it goes. Estella would likely love to have an excuse to send her another one, in exchange for even a  _ fraction _ of the reason for the first one’s demise--

Lothiriel yelps in surprise when Eomer abruptly stands. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist and  _ Valar _ , the feel of that is wonderful too. She is too overwhelmed to think of embarrassment when she moves her hips against his again and feels an equal rush of lust and pride at the ragged sound that rattles through her husband’s chest because of it.

Fondness quickly joins the two emotions in an even headier combination when Eomer bears her down onto the furs nearest the fire with utmost gentleness, despite the near tangible strings of desire connecting them.

“Why the change in venue?” She asks, stretching as long as her short frame will permit her along the furs.

Eomer swallows, watching her, and it takes the full measure of time he needs to wrestle out of his boots and breeches for him to answer. “That chair has been with the line of Eorl for years. I am not sure it could withstand our...enthusiasm. And…”

“And?”

It is her turn to swallow, for he offers her a smile that is nothing short of devious before pulling her shift up and over her head. “It lacks a few advantages the furs provide.”

The kisses he presses to her neck are familiar and warm. Then her breasts receive their share of attention, then her ribcage, then the slight pouch of her stomach, and then--

“ _ Oh _ ,” she gasps, because she has heard whispers of such an act before, but had not known how to ask, how to even broach the topic with Eomer.

More fool her, because it is nothing short of  _ wondrous _ , the sensations he’s currently wringing from her. She can do nothing other than ride the wave of pleasure, with the glide of his tongue and the pressure of his mouth. Blindly, she reaches for his hand with one of hers and sinks the other into the thick mane of his hair. Eomer groans when she accidentally tugs and she can  _ feel _ the sound, deep and shocking and--

“Eomer,” she manages to cry, though it’s a wonder she can breathe at all.

But the sound of his name only has him redoubling his efforts, so much so that she finds herself washed away on  _ another _ crest of sensation, and squeezing his fingers hard enough to hurt as she does so.

By the time she’s come back to herself, he’s kissing his way up her body, pressing a lingering one to the flat of her breastbone. He strokes her hair back from her face, gentle and considerate despite the very insistent way he’s pressed against her hip.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

Lothiriel manages a shaky laugh. She raises her hand--trembling, again--and shows it to him. “Let this be proof then. If I tremble around you,  _ bonda min _ , it is certainly not out of fear.”

He huffs a laugh before stealing up to her mouth for a kiss. She twines her arms around his neck and gives a soft sigh of contentment. For all his strength and height--and the temper she witnessed today--she is not afraid of him. Not then, not now, and certainly not when she hooks a knee around his hips, urging him closer.

The press of him is, as ever, beyond words. It is made even more so by the groan he gives when she scratches her nails, gently, but with pressure, over his back, the stutter of his hips when she holds him tighter,  _ deeper _ with her legs around his hips. The look in his eyes is nothing short of fiery, a different if no less potent, intensity of his wrath in the audience room earlier, and it makes her breath catch in her throat again.

“I still do not understand,” he mutters between pressing kisses to her jawline and the sensitive spot beneath her ear, “how you could  _ want _ me, like this, after today--”

She interrupts him with a searing kiss of her own. “Because you used that ferocity for--ah!--for protection, for defense--”

Eomer’s breath has gone very ragged now, and Lothiriel knows hers cannot possibly be much better, not with the desire curling, hot and bright, deep inside of her.

“Because you are so very  _ good _ , Eomer--”

Eomer groans and the last desperate snaps of his hips against hers has Lothiriel breathless as well, clinging to him as pleasure sweeps through them both. Still, she is unwilling to truly release him, stroking his hair as he pants against the curve of her neck.

“Bema above, woman,” he says.

Lothiriel smiles, tugging a little until he lifts his head to meet her eyes. “Do you understand now?”

The roll of his eyes is softened considerably by the small smile on his face. “Yes, Lothiriel Queen. Though I reserve the right to request further clarification, if needed.”

Oh, Valar, what an easy request to grant! She frowns, slightly, when he untangles himself from her to fetch a nearby water basin and cloth. Her frown only deepens when he passes her his shirt and begins to wriggle back into his breeches after they’ve both cleaned themselves off. Dutifully, she pulls it on and manages a small smile at how small it makes her feel. It certainly offers more coverage than her earlier outfit, but...

“Did you not like them?” Lothiriel asks, nodding at the rumpled shift and gown.

Eomer gives her a wry smile. “I think I have provided more than enough evidence to the contrary.”

“But why--”

She’s interrupted when he abruptly swings her up into his arms again and kisses her protest into silence. “For I intend to show you,  _ gesinge min _ , how much  _ I  _ like when my wife is bold. And I’d rather be the only one who gets to see you wear such things.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, throat feeling strangely thick with dangerously powerful affection, “don’t let me stop you, then.”

Eomer chuckles into her hair.

The walk to their bedroom is even shorter on his longer legs; somehow, Lothiriel cannot bring herself to mind.

 

* * *

 

(Estella is in their smial’s cozy sitting room, contemplating which basket to take with her Diamond’s for afternoon tea, when the door suddenly bursts open, revealing her very out-of-breath husband.

“Goodness me, Merry,” she says. “What’s all the trouble?”

“You’ve a letter,” he answers.

Estella’s brow furrows. “That’s hardly out of the ordinary and certainly no cause for a fuss--”

“You’ve a letter,” he repeats again, arching an eyebrow at her, “from the  _ Queen of Rohan _ .”

Estella darts out of her chair, snatching said letter from her husband’s fingers. She tears it open, all too aware of his too-smart, too-curious gaze on her. But that cannot stop her from grinning, near wide enough to hurt, when she reads its contents.

_ Big Folk or Hobbits, there’s nothing a husband likes more than a good bit of Buckland lace _ , she thinks.

“Well?” Merry asks. “Are you going to tell me why Lothiriel’s written you?”

“Not a chance, my love,” she says, softening the blow with a lingering kiss to his cheek. “For you have no secrets from Pippin and that’s the  _ last _ thing we need.  But we will need to take a trip to the market tomorrow.”

“Whatever for?”

“A replacement of sorts,” Estella says.

Merry grumbles, but tips his forehead to hers nonetheless. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Yes,” she agrees with a smile, “I know.”)

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is basically the result of my brain going boOOOOOoooooOOOOne a la Brooklyn 99 for the better part of a week. So. You're welcome?
> 
> The quality of Buckland lace is entirety of my own invention, but hey, I'm all for ladies helping ladies, be they of human or Hobbit variety ;)
> 
> Vocab:
> 
> Forswigest: be silent
> 
> wǣrloga: traitor
> 
> irfeláfa: heirlooms
> 
> Geséfte: the soft
> 
> bonda min: my husband
> 
> gesinge min: my wife


End file.
